My Husband
by Banana Rum
Summary: An OC takes Gracia Hughes to a dinner party and, to the displeasure of the other guest, it is revealed that Gracia loves her husband every bit as much as he loves her. Gracia x Hughes


**My Husband**

_Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction_

**Rating: **PG (K+)

**Genre:** gen (allusions to Gracia x Hughes), humour/angst

**Word Count: **1700 or so

**Summary: **An OC takes Gracia Hughes to a dinner party, and – to the displeasure of the other guests – it is revealed that Gracia loves her husband every bit as much as he loves her.

Gwendolyn Moss had drawn the short straw. And, being equally short on cash (what with Hubby Norton being away on business), she had been forced to take a common city _cab_ to 93 Mayflower Street.

She reminded herself that it was all for the best, and it was her – her… She fingered the star-shaped sequins on her handbag and fiddled with her pillbox cap as she tried to think of the fitting phrase.

Civic duty – that was it. Her civic duty.

Riding in a low-class vehicle through residential Central almost reminded her of her time as a Daring Young Thing (a period she was prone to recounting, if given a woefully unsuspecting but polite audience).

"Riding in a low-class vehicle through residential Central almost reminds me of my time in the old days. What a daring young thing I was!" The woman with the gaudy purse prompted the cab driver. There was a moment of tense silence, like waiting for the all-clear after an air raid, and Gwendolyn thought she might die of anxiety.

"Oh?"

A word. A single, vaguely interested (or quite possibly woefully unsuspecting but polite) word, and the anxiety dissipated. The floodgates opened, and Gwendolyn was safe. In a flurry of blushing 'oh, you shouldn'ts,' executed in perfect mock-modesty, she plunged into a life story her driver would never forget. (He still has nightmares about sequined purses with garrulous, lipsticked mouths.)

"I was one of the founding members of the Women's War and Westshire Watch, in the day. And my hubby, General Norton – maybe you've heard of him – funded us from the very beginning. The very beginning! He's ever so supportive and such. Oh, but I haven't told you about the other Women's War and Westshire Watch ladies! We're all getting together tonight – our tenth anniversary! – at Chapiro Club, because I heard Chapiro has the best soups and sandwiches. Have you ever been there? Oh, probably not; it's very expensive. That's why I'm taking this cab, instead of a private car – all my money is going into our dinner. It's going to be so fabulous! Hubby would give me more money, but he's away on official business – isn't that dedicated of him? Official business! I'm on official business, too. See, I'm the secretary of the Women's War and Westshire Watch…"

The cab driver sensed Gwendolyn might be going in circles. In an effort to keep himself from following her lead, he kept his mind on the road. Mayflower Street. Unsuspecting of his dire error, he politely remarked, "Miss, sorry to interrupt, but Chapiro Club isn't on Mayflower Street."

Gwendolyn paused, mid-word. "Oh, I know that. You see, Sadie Fax asked me to pick up, er, what _was_ her name? Married Lieutenant Mustang, I think…" She fumbled through her purse and plucked out a leaf of seashell stationery. "Gracia Hughes.

"Of course! Now I remember. A pretty young thing just like me, though a tad plain, if you know what I mean. Typesetter for our pamphlet, the Women's War and Westshire Watch Wavelength, she was. Only twenty-six, then – the youngest of all of us! Norton and I, we were both high in our forties for the Duration. Did I tell you she married Lieutenant Mustang? I'll never know what he saw in her. She was a little, you know…" Gwendolyn dropped her voice to a hushed whisper, as though what she were about to say was of national importance.

"_Eccentric_."

Silence. Perhaps the driver had misunderstood her. "_Off._"

"_Batty._"

"_Crackers._"

"93 Mayflower Street," said the cab driver, finally. There was a woman in a roseda frock sitting on the doorstep, with a small child balanced on her knees. Seeing the cab, she picked the child off her lap. The child allowed itself to be ushered inside with a kiss and Gracia Hughes, roseda frock and all, slipped inside the cab next to Gwendolyn.

"You have a lovely little boy, dear," Gwendolyn prompted. She wanted to tell Gracia how she had no children of her own, and how sad it was that Norton – or her, whoever died second – would be so fathomlessly lonely later in life.

"Girl," Gracia corrected pointedly. "Her name is Elicia. She's four."

Gwendolyn tried again. "And you married Lieutenant Mustang, right?"

"Maes Hughes, actually. He was a Major at the time, if that helps."

Gwendolyn chuckled, abashed. Gracia did not join in her laughter. "Perhaps it's best if we save our stories for the party, love," Gwendolyn murmured, her excitement deflated.

So they did. Gracia counted the number of streetlights they passed, based off the number of times rainbows splashed into her eyes, reflected off her company's absurd sequin handbag. Gwendolyn made a note (on seashell stationery) to sit as far away from Gracia as possible at the dinner, in hopes of avoiding any further embarrassments.

At Chapiro Club, twelve other ladies caught in similar circumstance (either awkwardly quiet or very obviously _loud_) were seated around an ovular table. The lights were low, anticipation high, and menus somewhere in between.

"Gwennie! And _Gracia_, is it? I haven't seen either of you in ages! How positively smashing!" Bright green scarf, generous amounts of power on her face (and unfortunately, everywhere else, too); Belinda Hodges never changed.

The ladies' complimented each other's bags and coats and shoes and dresses all through the bread, salad (with a positively _amazing_ oil dressing from Crete), and soup portion of the meal. When dessert hour arrived, Gwendolyn called for a change of topics.

And all the ladies, by this time, were brimming with excitement. (They would all tell you, complimenting one another's style was empty, because, of course, _they_ were the best dressed.)

Gossip hour.

As Sadie Fax told it, Mrs. Hakuro's husband was cheating on her. "Saw him rounding the corner with that little slinky thing, Miss Juliet Douglas. And the way they were laughing, you'd think they weren't trying to be discreet about it!" Sadie waggled her finger for emphasis.

Apparently, things were not well on the husband front. After hearing Sadie, the other ladies of the Westshire Watch felt obliged to tell their own tales. Some were lazy, others too absorbed in their work. Some followed in General Hakuro's footsteps and were cheating on their wives, for little slinky things they met at work.

Others didn't know what they wanted. "M-my husband," Belinda Hodges said, patting at a spot of powder on the front of her dress, "is _leaving_ me." An abundance of oh, dear, we're so _sorry_s and whatever for? You're _wonderful_s ensued. When the group had quieted down sufficiently, Belinda continued. "He says something like the _spark_'s gone, and he wants something _fresh_, not conservative, like I want. He wants _more_! What could be more exciting than bingo every Thursday night, and a picture show every other Wednesday?" The ladies couldn't think of anything.

"Well," someone said. A dozen or so powdered, lipsticked faces turned toward the speaker – who had been silent for most of the evening – Gracia Hughes.

"_My_ husband," Gracia finished, "is perfect."

There was an abrupt lull in the conversation as all the ladies halted mid-sentence at this preposterous claim. Then, it was as if something inside Gracia snapped.

"He's diligent and truly, wholly _excellent_ at his job, he'll do the dishes without me asking, or fix the leaky faucet in the upstairs bathroom, or read my baby books, or listen to her sing, and he loves his family _so_ much. He loves _me_, and our daughter…

"Look, here are some pictures! These are from his promotion a few years ago. And these are from Elicia's fourth birthday, and these are from Take-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day. Isn't she cute when she's clinging to her daddy like that?"

The Westshire Watch ladies were dumbstruck. Gwendolyn secretly hoped that there would be an air siren and another war, to drown out the battle raging in Chapiro Club.

"And he would never, ever leave _me_."

Belinda Hodges burst into tears, and one of the two ladies nearest her recoiled. The other, glaring disapprovingly at the first, immediately turned to comfort Belinda.

Gwendolyn took Gracia roughly by the arm (or at least, as roughly as one can manage while trying to be discreet, since the entire restaurant's attentions have already turned toward one's table) and led her outside.

There, the lights were high – too high. The lights were high and the darkness low, and Gracia Hughes was somewhere in between.

"I've always fancied you a proper lady, even though you married Colonel Musta- _Brigadier General Maes Hughes_, and everything else. But your behaviour tonight, _especially _rattling on about how wonderful your life is, even as a fellow woman is lamenting her hubby's ingratitude – how insensitive!"

"You wouldn't know this," Gracia whispered. "But I detest you, because of the exact same reasons I fancy you hate _me_. Nevertheless, you weren't the least welcome guest at my door today. And you weren't the ugliest, even with your stupid sequin handbag."

Gwendolyn sniffed defensively, nostrils flaring, grip on her handbag tightening. "My hubby bought this for me; it's imported all the way from Xing – the new 'in' design. He works _so_ hard and sacrifices _so_ much, just to provide for me. But you wouldn't understand _that_ know would you?"

"_My_ husband bought his friend's life." Gracia's eyes stung, and tears came not from elation or melancholy, but from vivid recollection – the coffee in Chapiro Club, hot and black; hard, green (but homegrown, tendered by her husband) tomatoes in her daughter's mouth; the acrid tang of smoke lingering on a battlefield. Tears came from bitterness.

"_My_ husband is _dead_."

There was an ocean of silence between them. Finally, Gwendolyn's curiosity got the better of her. "How?"

"Murdered."

"Shot."

"_Dead_. What does it matter to you? You hardly even know his _name_," Gracia sobbed. She was bitter, and angry, and she didn't know what else.

The older woman made no move to console her – her typesetter, her dinner guest, her _daring young thing_ of a friend. She simply started, and it was as if Gwendolyn Moss's life ended on that street corner. After all, Gracia's was already over. What consolations mattered anymore?

_fin_

**Notes:** Quite possibly the worst Fullmetal Alchemist fic ever written (OCs, humour, Gracia Hughes, WTF). I rather like it, though. I can't believe I started this on 15 October 2005 (though that is probably why both idea and approach are so strange).

Constructive criticism would be lovely!


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